Icebreaker by A. L. Graziadei
ONE
AUGUST
So, being both depressed and anxious at the same time is absolutely wild.
I have zero desire or motivation to play hockey or do anything other than acquaint myself with my new mattress, but I also have this all-consuming need to be on the ice. To prove myself worthy of my own name.
At least I have Delilah here to make the whole situation tolerable.
I sit on top of the boards at home bench, taping the blade of my stick and listening to the scrape of ice as my sister teaches her new girlfriend, Jade, how to skate. Don’t ask me how Delilah ended up with a non-athlete. Her life is even more hockey-centric than mine, and in the few hours I’ve known Jade, she’s made it perfectly clear that she knows next to nothing about the sport.
Still, the way Delilah smiles, holding Jade’s hands and skating backward as she guides her across the ice, it’s almost enough to make me smile, too.
I try. Force a little uptick at the corners of my mouth. But with banners bearing my name hanging from the rafters, I feel like I’m suffocating under them.
Well, not exactly my name. I’m Mickey James III. Hanging from the rafters are two banners that say James and James II above the now-retired numbers 7 and 13. Waiting for my James III and 17 to join them and complete the trio.
At least until I produce Mickey James IV, and IV spawns Mickey James V, and so on until there are no numbers left for anyone else and Hartland University is forced to shut down the men’s hockey program.
“Don’t let go!” Jade says with the barest hint of a Southern accent, followed by shrieks of laughter as they both tumble to the ice. Thank god Delilah’s wearing shorts under her dress, or I would’ve had to gouge my own eyes out.
I tear the tape off and set the roll next to me on the boards, trading it for my phone and resting my stick across my lap. Obligation forced me up the hill to the arena and into my skates, but apathy overpowers my will to step onto the ice.
There’s a couple messages from my best friend, Nova, waiting for me when I unlock my phone.
Nova: Hey babe
How’s day one going
I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the away goal, the gap in the seats offering a view of Cayuga Lake down the hill, sunlight glinting off it like glass. Hartland’s old stone-and-brick buildings peeking through masses of trees.
If I were anyone else, I might be thrilled to be here right now. On this gorgeous campus, days before the start of my freshman year of college. My entire future laid out at my feet.
But because I’m me, all I can think to say is:
Mickey: Kill me now.
I will pay to fly you from paris or wherever tf you are just so you can kill me
Nova: Sorry your majesty
You’re not that lucky
I narrow my eyes at the your majesty. That’s a new one. Never should’ve joined a team called the Royals.
I glance up in time to see Delilah haul Jade to her feet. She brushes snow off her leggings, and I notice paint stains on her hands, vibrant blues and reds on her dark skin. That’s right. Delilah mentioned she was an artist. Delilah, my total jock of a sister, dating an artist who didn’t even know what a celly was until Delilah demonstrated her go-to goal celebration （the dice roll, because she is that kind of hockey jock） ten minutes ago.
It’s a side of her I never thought I’d see.
“Think you’re ready for some two-on-one?” I call out, my voice rough with disuse.
Jade startles like she forgot I was here, which I can’t blame her for, but her shock melts into an easy grin as she holds Delilah’s arm for support and stretches her back. “Sure! I’ll just … sit in the net or something. Because I can’t even stand on ice, apparently.”
“Once you get over the fear of falling, you’ll pick it up in no time,” Delilah says. She guides Jade back to the bench for a break and leans against the boards next to me.
“I’m more interested in watching the two of you,” Jade says from behind me on the bench. “I want to see real hockey players in action.”
Delilah looks at me, the bangs of her excessively long bubblegum-pink hair hanging in her face. I watch her gaze linger on the dark circles under my eyes, her lips pressing together in a thin line. She probably thinks I’ll collapse as soon as my skates touch the ice, but really, this is just how I look all the time now.
Ever since the NHL Entry Draft ended in June and the focus shifted over to next year’s prospects. Over to me and Jaysen Caulfield, everyone’s projected top two. With my anxiety at its peak, sleep’s been pretty hard to come by.